


A Very English Afternoon Tea

by elfin



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-22
Updated: 2019-06-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 16:35:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,143
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19321978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elfin/pseuds/elfin
Summary: Crowley and Aziraphale meet Anathema for afternoon tea in a little cafe in Tadfield.





	A Very English Afternoon Tea

**Author's Note:**

> There's no reason for this fic. If there was when I started writing it, I can't for the life of me remember what it was! This is basically fluffy nonsense.

They meet for afternoon tea in a little cafe in Tadfield. It does finger sandwiches, cherry scones and little cream cakes in bright colours that make Aziraphale’s mouth water. The green leaf tea is exquisite, and Crowley orders a bottle of champagne which the waitress seems surprised to be opening. They only usually stock Prosecco, she says, and the bottle she’s found at Crowley’s behest looks a lot more expensive. 

Anathema joins them just as the stacked plates arrive. She looks well, and Aziraphale tells her so. Life with Newt at Jasmine Cottage suits her.

When the sandwiches and the scones have been devoured, and they’re taking a break before starting in on the cakes, Anathema asks - for the second time in less than a week, ‘So... what is the story between you two? Out at the airbase, you said something about a garden?’

‘Yes, before I was rudely interrupted.’ Aziraphale casts an accusatory glance at Crowley who says nothing. He doesn’t react, doesn’t move, he’s sitting with his elbows on the table, chin in one hand, champagne glass in the other. He’s never been very good at playing nicely with others; as much as he loves the world and admires humans for their creativity and imaginations, there’s very few people whose company he’s sought out over the years. He doesn’t really like being in any company that isn’t Aziraphale and, although he won’t ever admit to it, it does give the angel a small private thrill that such a beautiful creature would choose him over everything else in creation. Right now that beautiful creature is staring at their invited guest from behind his sunglasses like he’s willing her to disappear.

‘It was the garden of Eden actually,’ Aziraphale clarifies. ‘I’d noticed him, slithering through the grass, lazing in the sunshine.’ A graceful serpent with scales such of incredible colour, like the burning horizon at sunset. He thinks this, but doesn’t say it. ‘And I know he’d been keeping an eye on me because he’d seen me with the flaming sword. But we actually met the day God got annoyed at Adam and Eve for eating the apple and sent them packing. That was his fault, technically, but we can’t hold it against him.’ Aziraphale pats Crowley’s arm and the demon does turn his head in his palm, briefly to glance at him, before returning to glaring at poor Anathema. At least she doesn’t seem phased by him. ‘We can’t be certain it wasn’t all part of the great plan all along, I suppose. After that, for a while, we just we kept bumping into one another, didn’t we?’ Crowley gives another glance in his direction and this time it’s accompanied by a smile. 

Anathema sits forward. ‘Wait. You just kept bumping in to each other? Where?’

‘All over the place. The big events, obviously: at the start of the great flood - we watched Noah set sail in the ark. We were both at Jesus’ crucifixion, he because he knew him and me because, well, guilt I suppose.’ He trails off. ‘But otherwise it was quite random. Rome, Greece, we’d go to lunch, catch up....’

‘Rome? Greece? The whole world, and you happen to be in the same places at the same time?’ She’s grinning widely at them both and Aziraphale is starting to think he might have missed an important detail somewhere along the very long line. ‘What are the odds you’d just happen to be the same city on the same day, let alone the same… tavern? Restaurant?’

Aziraphale hasn’t really ever thought about it. ‘Well.... I mean, it’s not as implausible as it might sound. We are drawn to each other, being the only two ethereal beings on the planet. We have a sort of instinct when it comes to finding one another.’

‘Were you looking for each other?’

‘No! Why would an angel and a demon seek each other out?’ But when he looks at Crowley he’s looking right back with a smug, yet somehow the most innocent of expressions it’s possible to convey while wearing dark glasses indoors. ‘Crowley?’

He shrugs. ‘Can’t imagine.’

There’s an old expression Aziraphale remembers from the war; ‘played for suckers’. There’s a distinct possibility he has been. Not that it matters, not really. He wouldn’t change it for anything. 

‘Whatever it was… after a while we agreed to stay in contact, and somewhere in the eleventh century-‘ 

‘September 24th 1020,’ Crowley clarifies, and for a moment Aziraphale can only stare. 

‘Really?’ Crowley nods. ‘Wow. Well.’ He trips over himself for a second or two. ‘That’s when we came to our Arrangement. We agreed that we would stay out of one another’s way and, if by happenstance, one of us should be travelling any distance to do the bidding of our immediate superiors, we’d also execute the will of the… other side while we were there. Save us both from going.’

‘But, doesn’t that mean you’d never see each other?’

‘You’d think so wouldn’t you?’ His trippy tone earned Aziraphale a kick to the shin under the table. ‘But with the Arrangement in place, it was a reason to meet up, to swap errands, appraise each other of the results.’ He pats Crowley’s shoulder affectionately. ‘I couldn’t seem to get rid of him.’

‘So… you’ve been together since the eleventh century?’ She puts the emphasis on ‘together’. 

Aziraphale shakes his head. ‘Oh, no. Not _together_ , together. That only happened last Sunday. Well, Saturday, actually, I think. Can you remember what time we got back to your flat, dear fellow?’

‘Eleven passed midnight.’

‘Sunday then.’

‘Sx thousand years and you got together… on Sunday?’

Aziraphale finds himself suddenly on the defensive. ‘I’ll admit it’s taken me a while to get used to the idea. He’s been exceptionally patient.’

‘I slept with Newt the afternoon we met.’ Crowley lets out a bark of unexpected laughter and Aziraphale glares at him. 

‘Well. That’s understandable. The world was ending. You didn’t know how much time you had.’ 

‘I knew exactly how much time we had.’ She looks smug for a moment, but she’s good with people, with reading a situation. She changes the subject. ‘Isn’t it… difficult? You being a divine messenger of the Lord and you,’ she hesitates and with good reason. Crowley’s still looking steadily at her, like she’s interrupting something despite them having invited her the same way he has been since she arrived, only now there’s something which is distinctly a _warning_ about it. 

Aziraphale stops her from saying something they’ll all regret. 

‘We’ve reached an… understanding with our respective employers.’ Aziraphale reaches for a profiterole drenched in chocolate sauce. He offers it to Crowley who moves his head from side to side, once. He’s snaffled a few sandwiches but the angel is the one with the sweet tooth, Crowley isn’t fond of dessert. Usually he’ll just have an espresso, although he is partial to those after-dinner coffees with spirits in them.

‘An understanding? With that… monster that came up out of the runway?’

’Not exactly. With his… personal assistants. And God’s… personal assistants too.’

‘Did the last of Agnus’ prophecies help in that? Only, it’s the one we never managed to interpret with any degree of confidence. It didn’t seem to fit Newt or myself. We knew there’d be an angel involved, although I’m not sure any member of my family translated it to mean literally an angel.’

‘It did, actually.’ Aziraphale makes it clear by his expression that he has no intention of elaborating.

‘So… you’re off the hook? For helping to prevent the apocalypse? Because those two others, the one covered in flies and the one in the good coat, they didn’t look too happy with you.’

‘Gabriel and Beelzebub.’ Her eyes go wide. ‘No, they weren’t - aren’t - entirely. But we… persuaded them it was better for everyone if we were just left alone.’

‘Ha!’ Crowley sits up without warning, suddenly animated, waving their waitress over and asking her to bring another bottle of ‘that fine champagne’. Aziraphale can only stare. ‘What?’

‘You haven’t exactly been… involved in the conversation thus far.’

‘No. Sorry. Just been trying to work something out.’

‘What have you been trying to work out?’

‘The ineffable plan.’

Aziraphale’s completely lost. ‘You can’t work out the ineffable plan, that’s the whole point! What have we been saying for the last six thousand years?’

‘I know. But think about all those prophecies in that book. Think about all the individual threads that had to… wind and unwind, just to get all of us to that airbase at that time. If it hadn’t been for Agnus, she,’ he points at Anathema, ‘wouldn’t have been there. We wouldn’t have been there, because you wouldn’t have found Adam. If the ineffable plan was for war, why let Agnus leave great big… what are those things people leave for others to follow?’

Aziraphale has no idea what he’s talking about, but sometimes it’s best to let him get it out of his system. ’Signposts?’

‘No. Squishier.’

It’s Anathema who says, ‘breadcrumbs,’ as the waitress returns with a second bottle of vintage champagne worth more per bottle than the monthly rental payment on the cafe. 

‘Yes! Breadcrumbs. All those breadcrumbs left by Agnus. All you did was follow them.’

‘And what did you follow?’ she asks.

‘I followed my heart.’

It’s such a sweetly romantic thing for Crowley to say that Aziraphale isn’t sure he heard right. He turns to look slowly, getting nothing from the snake eyes hidden behind those dark lenses. But he’s learnt to read the rest of Crowley’s expression in the tilt of his head, the play of a smile on his lips. It takes Aziraphale’s breath away. He wants to say, ‘I love you too, you silly fool,’ but he doesn’t. He wants to weep a little too, in fact, with the enormity of it all. But he doesn’t do that either.

‘My dear….’ 

Luckily the waitress mucks up pouring the champagne and the weight of the moment is lifted. 

‘So you’re saying, everything we did was just… destiny?’

Crowley replies, ‘Ask your witch finder boyfriend what he thinks it was.’ He picks up his glass, waits for Anathema and Aziraphale to do the same, and says, ‘To Agnus.’ Words spoken, glasses chinked, Aziraphale sips the bubbly and watches Anathema realise this isn’t the cheap stuff. 

‘My God, that’s good,’ she murmurs, and it makes the angel smile. ‘I suppose you’re both used to the finer things in life.’

Aziraphale looks away, a little embarrassed. Crowley smiles but doesn’t feel the need to justify the champagne. He’s used to answering to a higher - lower - power. The opinions of others has never meant a jot to him. To either of them. 

Anathema doesn’t wait for a response that isn’t coming. ’So, if God’s great plan isn’t the apocalypse, what is it?’

‘Only She knows that.’ Aziraphale is on more solid ground now. ‘And She’s not about to tell, especially not to us.’

‘She? Um. Makes sense. Besides, it’s fun, living without the instructions. Every day is a new adventure.’

With what’s been on his mind out in the open, Crowley sits back and cradles his champagne. But rather than returning to glaring at Anathema, he pins his beady eyes on Aziraphale. The angel’s used to it. Crowley has two settings - perfectly still or madly animated - he’s used to having entire conversations, entire meals, with Crowley barely moving, regarding him steadily for hours at a time. At first, he found it uncomfortable, tried to fill the silences. But after so, so long, he’s become accustomed to it, has found himself craving the undivided, unwavering attention. The comfortable, easy company. Crowley hangs around the bookshop for days, sometimes weeks on end; sleeping, drinking, dreaming up new and inventive ways of messing with mankind. He’s never any trouble to Aziraphale, on occasion he’s actually forgotten he’s there. It’s nice. It’s very, very nice.

‘So, what kind of ‘new adventures’ are you and Newt planning?’

They talk for another hour. Well, Aziraphale and Anathema do; about her taking Newt over to LA for a holiday next year, about Adam and his friends, about how things in Tadfield are almost but not quite normal. There are little things, she says, not so anyone would notice, but she sees them now she knows to look for them.

Aziraphale listens, all the while a small part of him intensely aware of Crowley sitting at his side, waiting to drive them home.

Just before they leave, Crowley pays the bill. Not the one left discretely on their table between the teapot and the sugar, but the one he’s calculated in his head which includes the two bottles of champagne as well as a healthy tip. It pays the rent on the cafe for the next three months.


End file.
